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When I’m lonely, I’m rarely alone. Those many sleepless nights I’ve had in New York when you’re almost positive that the entire city that never sleeps took an Ambien except for you? I happen to like those quiet moments. I don’t feel detached. On the contrary, I feel more in tune to to the rhythm of things when there’s nothing but silence.

I feel most alone at 2pm on a Saturday when you’re surrounded by nothing but couples or groups of friends and you don’t fit into either category. You’re just kind of floating by languidly while everyone else seems to be busy connecting with other people.

I feel most alone on a bad date, when you’re sitting across from someone who clearly doesn’t get you and never will. You wonder how someone that looked so good on paper could get lost in translation. You wonder just how hard it…

A very dependable feature of people who live abroad is finding them huddled together in bars and restaurants, talking not just about their homelands, but about the experience of leaving. And strangely enough, these groups of ex-pats aren’t necessarily all from the same home countries, often the mere experience of trading lands and cultures is enough to link them together and build the foundations of a friendship. I knew a decent amount of ex pats — of varying lengths of stay — back in America, and it’s reassuring to see that here in Europe, the “foreigner” bars are just as prevalent and filled with the same warm, nostalgic chatter.

But one thing that undoubtedly exists between all of us, something that lingers unspoken at all of our gatherings, is fear. There is a palpable fear to living in a new country, and though it is more acute in the first…